


The Summer Family

by bwyn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Again sort of, Alternate Universe - Canada, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Asexual Character, Camping, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Lesbian Pidge, M/M, ace biro lance is back, ace homoro keith, im not going to go through the rest of the list, just know there is so much going on, sort of, the fact that's a tag tickles me, this is going to be a wild ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:51:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn
Summary: Summer Headquarters –– the name of the staff house that is home to dozens of teenagers and young adults, excited to earn money, meet new friends, and make memories in Chippewa Provincial Park for the summer season.And it will be a season none of them will forget.Featuring burning gazebos, midnight canoe rides, hungry black bears, and stupid campers, among other things.// dropped and unfinished





	1. transport trucks stop for no one

**Author's Note:**

> HEEEEEEEEEY GUYS remember when I said I have no impulse control _well i don't_ so here's this, the beginning of a monstrosity. The chapters aren't going to really follow a single plot, per se, but they'll be depicting.... _events_ throughout the season and multiple plot threads. POVs will switch between a bunch of characters. Shorter chapters, but many of them, sprinkled here and there between my bigger projects. OCs out the wazoo, because voltron doesn't have a big enough cast. Relationships minor and major e v e r y where. Many of these things will be true stories. Ask me about them. _Ask me about my hatred and fear of transport trucks_.
> 
> ANYWAY. HAVE FUN.
> 
> ((also fyi everyone is canadian))

The nerves don’t set in until Keith sees the sign – “Welcome to Chippewa Provincial Park” – hanging between two log posts on his way down the two lane highway. The scenery doesn’t change; mostly hardwood trees, thick green canopies and thick green understories, shivering in the cool spring breeze. The sky is a solid, daunting blue, not a fluffy cloud in sight. In the distance, Keith thinks he sees a bush plane soaring over the treetops.

 

Keith’s hands tighten on the steering wheel of his old red Toyota. The park’s west gate entrance passes by, and for a moment Keith panics, thinking he’s missed a turn. A hand flings out to rifle about the loose papers in the passenger seat, sending several to the floor of the car before his fingers find the worn slip. Keith takes his foot off the gas as his gaze flicks from the road to the paper.

 

_Take Renfrew exit onto HWY 50_

 

Right. Did that.

 

_Cont thru WG_

 

Oh, _through_ west gate. Cool.

 

_Cont for 30k_

 

Keith is pretty sure the staffhouse is dead center on the highway that cuts through the smallest corner of the park. How big is this place, anyway?

 

_Turn left at Mute_

 

And he knows that’s one of the campgrounds. Alright, he has this. It’s impossible to get lost on a road that doesn’t split.

 

Suddenly, Keith regrets not stopping in at the gate to grab a map of the park.

 

He tosses the slip of paper back onto the seat beside him and forces his grip to relax. A glance at the speedometer tells him he’s cruising ten below the limit, so he puts some pressure back on the gas. The highway is full of gentle curves and shallow hills preceding steep ones. There’s plenty of unmarked roads that make Keith second guess his directions even though he _knows_ he’s only ten K in, there’s a tiny sign marking every kilometer for christ’s sake. It’s not even his first time in the park – but it’s the first time he’s on his own, and there’s plenty to be nervous about.

 

Keith spins the volume on the radio and abruptly The Cramps are blasting. It takes the edge off. Slightly.

 

Until ten minutes later when there’s a massive transport barrelling down on Keith. He didn’t think much of it until he was coasting down a hill and the truck went from fifty meters away to ten. Now it seems to be inching ever closer, and Keith is pushing a hundred, twenty kilometers over the speed limit and still going. The transport seems to think it’s a game. Keith lets his vexation channel down to where his foot presses the gas pedal down. The Toyota shoots forward. The transport follows.

 

He’s reluctant to speed down a road he isn’t entirely familiar with, but he counts this as a life or death situation. Especially when Keith realizes he just passed the twenty-eight kilometer marker and he’s _flying_ at one-twenty, the transport keeping pace even after he shoots up a steep hill.

 

His grip on the steering wheel is tight with irritation now, nerves taking a back seat as Keith glares through the rear view mirror. The truck’s headlights glint in the sun as it crests the hill. Keith wants to slam on his brakes, give the truck driver something to panic about and maybe _stop riding his ass_ , but he expects he would become a smear on the pavement. So instead, Keith tries to send a message to the asshole huffing his car’s exhaust by gently tapping his brakes. Gently. Just enough to flash his brakelights.

 

The truck doesn’t bother slowing down. The sign for Mute Lake whips by. There’s a turning lane on the right – for entry into the campground – but there’s nothing for turning left onto the unmarked road. Keith inhales, his knuckles white, the truck driver leaning on his horn and the Sex Pistols blasting. Then Keith’s foot is flush with the brake, the opposite foot trembling as it presses against the mat. The truck is screaming at him. Keith is screaming, too.

 

“ _FUUUUUUUUUCK–”_ hollers Keith as he flies onto the road, the Toyota shuddering ominously around him and the truck charging right on by, horn still roaring.

 

Safe, says his brain, while the rest of him is quivering.

 

Heart pounding, he creeps the last half kilometer going thirty. The smooth paved road cuts abruptly to dirt and a cloud of dust erupts behind the car. There’s several low buildings beneath the shade of tall red pines. Keith isn’t sure where he’s supposed to go, but there’s a hand-painted sign indicating staffhouse parking, so he pulls in and – despite the general emptiness of the lot – slides into the gap between a lifted pickup and a station wagon completely covered in dirt.

 

Keith steps out of his car and his legs wobble dangerously beneath him. He braces himself against the red frame for a moment, locks his knees, and moves to grab one of his bags from the backseat. Slinging it over one shoulder, Keith steps over the curb onto grass and pine needles and walks over to the building marked by a sign with three letters – SHQ.

 

Summer Headquarters.

 

His home for the next three months.

 

With a steadying inhale, Keith walks up the questionably sturdy wooden steps. There’s a paint bucket full of sand and a forest of cigarette butts, nearly as many as the collection littering the the ground under the stairs. To his right is a humming vending machine and a picnic table beside a ramp leading to another door. On his left is what appears to be the laundry room, except it’s lacking a door, and Keith can see at least a dozen bugs flattened like pressed flowers in the window behind the dryer. It seems to set the stage for what he should expect.

 

He opens the screen door, pushes the second door behind it as well, and Keith officially steps inside the staffhouse. The men’s washroom also has no door apparently, which is the first thing Keith notices since it’s immediately on his left. The shower is running, wafts of steam sticking humidly to Keith’s skin. He moves on down the hall. A corkboard occupies much of one side, covered in pamphlets and booklets and a pocket dictionary tied to a string. The other side has a payphone and a whiteboard covered in incredibly inappropriate doodles that brings a small smile to Keith’s face. Between the phone and the board is a door, shut and nameless but for a clipboard and pen hanging from it. There’s a short list of names on it in different handwriting and check marks beside them.

 

The narrow hall opens into a common room with several long tables shaped in a U. A couple guys are sitting on worn couches in the corner, their eyes glued to the television screen and their fingers working tirelessly at their Xbox controllers. There’s a door on either side wall, presumably leading to the bedrooms, and one on the back wall where Keith can see an indoor patio through the wide windows and the backyard beyond that. On the counter bordering what is left of the empty wall space is a double coffee maker, a basket of fruit, and cereal dispensers beside what might be a coldbox. That, paired with the fridge, assures Keith that he isn’t going to go hungry anytime soon. He’s kind of already starving from his near death experience with the truck.

 

Keith pauses at one of the tables, giving a salt shaker a nudge. “Uh, hey?”

 

A nice, awkward start. The guys glance over at him in unison, the barest flicker of attention before they’re back to blasting things on screen.

 

“Shotty not,” says one the moment the other says, “Hey.”

 

The second scowls. “Bro, _say hi_.”

 

“Hi. Shotty not.”

 

“Dick.”

 

The door nearest them swings open to admit a heavy set young man, a towel slung over one shoulder. He’s shirtless, baring a broad, deep brown chest, but neither he nor the two gamers seem shy about it.

 

“Nose goes,” chirps the second the instant the door opens. A fingertip goes to his nose. His friend does the same.

 

The newcomer blinks in confusion, until his gaze lands on Keith with his backpack, and he snorts. “The least you guys could do is make him feel _welcome_.”

 

“Welcome,” they say together.

 

“Thanks,” says Keith wryly.

 

“Sorry about them,” sighs the newcomer, “They’re not exactly the helpful type. I’m Hunk, by the way,” he says to halfhearted protests of _excuse you we’re totally helpful_ and _we work our asses off providing entertainment and shit_.

 

Keith grins, glad Hunk doesn’t go in for the handshake as he says, “Keith.”

 

“Welcome to SHQ,” smiles Hunk, “I was about to dive into the shower but since _some people_ can’t be bothered to be _decent_ , I’ll get you sorted.”

 

“Rude, bro.”

 

“Remember when Hunk was nice?”

 

“Nah, man, first time I met him, he nearly crushed my skull.”

 

“‘Kay, but you deserved it.”

 

“...Yeah, true.”

 

“Ignore them,” mutters Hunk as he leads Keith back down the narrow hall. He stops at the door with the clipboard and gives the knob an experimental twist. “Knew it. They keep forgetting to lock it. For the love of all that is holy…”

 

Hunk trails off into disgruntled mumbles as he opens the door. Inside is all stainless steel countertops and sinks, a gas stove and an abundance of cupboards. Hunk disappears into a back room, leaving Keith to hover awkwardly in the doorway until he returns with papers in hand and a pen clicking under his thumb.

 

“Right,” he says, spreading the sheets out on the counter, “You just have to sign the staffhouse agreement and pick a room. There’s a bunch empty still, but by July all the highschoolers will be swarming in here and everyone gets a roommate.”

 

“I’ll take one for myself while I can,” says Keith, accepting the contract and skimming over the rules. Nothing new, mostly common sense. He scribbles his signature on the bottom line.

 

“It’s fun until you’re stuck rooming with a sixteen year old,” says Hunk, then he flushes and backpedals, “Not that there’s anything wrong with them! They just...tend to get...rambunctious.”

 

“Being away from home?” provides Keith, raising his eyebrows.

 

Hunk sighs. “Exactly. Last year… you know what, I’ll just let you judge them for yourself.” But he shudders visibly and Keith is already passing judgement on the young teens he has yet to meet. “Right, we’ll drop you into room eleven. Okay, so, men’s washroom is by the front door, women’s is around the corner on the opposite end. Not that anyone pays attention to the signs.”

 

Just as he says it, a tall girl, long black hair dripping down her back, passes the open doorway wrapped only in a towel. Clearly coming from the direction of the men’s washroom. Then she’s popping her head in and grinning broadly at Hunk and Keith.

 

“Fresh meat!” she greets brightly, “Heya, Hunk.”

 

“Hi, Thalia.” Hunk grins at her and jerks his thumb at Keith. “This is Keith, not fresh meat.”

 

“Well then, hello Keith!” Then she juts out her bottom lip and leans against the doorway, water dripping into a small puddle at her feet. “Hunk, can you get the kitchen boys to make real food tonight?”

 

“Unfortunately, cabbage rolls _are_ real,” says Hunk, and the downcast gaze is all too real, “I’m sorry. Next year, I swear I’ll shoot for kitchen duty.”

 

Thalia sticks out her pinky finger, brow furrowed. Keith watches Hunk slowly lift his own to hook their digits together. Their joined hands bob once, and then Thalia is calling a farewell and marching away, flip flops slapping against the floor.

 

“Which reminds me,” says Hunk as soon as his finger is freed, “You have to remember to sign up for meals, so the kitchen boys know how much to make.” He flattens his palm against the clipboard hanging on the door. “Just write your name here and make a check for the meal. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are self explanatory. Boxed lunches are those you pack yourself, and boxed dinners are brought to you if you’re working through the time it gets served, or it gets put in the fridge to grab later.”

 

Hunk goes through the hours for each meal, listing off on his fingers the foods available during the downtime – cereal, bread, milk, fruit, pudding and so on – as well as pointing out the menu plan for the week pinned above the clipboard. He must notice that Keith is growing more overwhelmed with every bit of information thrown at him, because Hunk cuts off his explanation and gives Keith a hearty clap on the shoulder.

 

“You’ll pick up on it,” Hunk assures him with a kind smile, “Just remember to sign up for food, or Haggar will have your head.”

 

Then Hunk’s eyes pop wide and then slide shut in a grimace.

 

Keith, hesitantly, asks, “Who’s… Haggar?”

 

“ _Don’t say that where she can hear you_ ,” whispers Hunk hoarsely, the hand on Keith’s shoulder gripping tight. His gaze meets Keith’s, haunted with some past trauma. “Her real name is Helen. She’s head of the staffhouse and runs the kitchen. There was a whole…” He waves a hand vaguely. “ _Thing_. Helen. Hellwoman. The Hag from Hell. Hag. Haggar. Just… don’t let it slip.”

 

The back of Keith’s neck may be prickling, but he nods readily enough. “Right. Helen. Not Haggar.”

 

Hunk gives his shoulder another squeeze, but this time it seems to be more reassuring. “Great. Do you need any help bringing your stuff in?”

 

“Nah, I’ll manage. Thanks.”

 

Keith thanks the power of karma for giving him Hunk following the incident with the transport truck. He isn’t sure he could’ve handled a meeting with Haggar – er, _Helen_ – while riding on the last fumes of adrenaline.

 

He gratefully takes his room key from Hunk, who then goes off to actually have a shower. Keith bounces the key in his hand, rubs his thumb over its edges, and takes a deep breath. Three months in the middle of nowhere, in a staffhouse with dozens of other young adults and teenagers, working under the sun and trees and spending his free time hiking the trails and canoeing in the backcountry. It’s nerve wracking, exciting, overwhelming, thrilling.

 

Keith closes his fingers around the key and strides back into the common room, terrified and grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (((ty pev for thalia who will no doubt be ooc as will the rest of the ocs i sniped from y'all)))


	2. their first meeting involves bros and volleyball

The sky is dimming with the descent of the sun. Lance’s fingers leave long prints in the veil of dirt on his car, and slamming the trunk door causes a plume of dust to rise – right into his nose. He sneezes and coughs and flails a hand in front of his face, but it isn’t until he’s backed up a meter that he can finally breathe again. Great. Now he’ll be blowing dirt out of his nose for the next week.

 

He hitches his duffel more comfortably over his shoulder and crosses the parking lot. There’s a couple unfamiliar cars filling in the spots that were empty since he was here last. After his first week of work, he was given a five day break straight off the bat, allowing him to return to his parents’ house and leech another few days of home cooked food – but it also meant missing out on new faces and probably a ton of new inside jokes. It’s an impossible feat keeping up with all of them, Lance is well aware, especially being the butt of several that he wishes would just fade into the abyss forever.

 

Recalling one such attempt at a joke, Lance pauses at the dirt-encrusted station wagon seated beside one of the new cars, a red Toyota. He considers writing something rude – maybe an insult, although he wouldn’t want to waste the opportunity on something weak and ill planned – but in the end he settles for drawing a multitude of dicks on the bumper.

 

Once satisfied, he walks up the rickety wood steps and enters the staffhouse. It isn’t surprising that the first thing Lance hears is the sound of false gunfire coming from the television. He sighs audibly and trudges down the narrow hall, pausing briefly to glance at the meal sign up sheet for any new names (a Keith and a Jackie are the only ones he isn’t familiar with).

 

“TB!” crows one of the boys slouching on the couch.

 

“Not my name, Red,” says Lance, “Stop trying to make it happen.”

 

“Hey, man, if we say it enough, anything can become a thing,” says Red, reaching over to give his friend and gaming buddy, Rolo, an unnecessary high five.

 

“TB won’t become a thing,” insists Lance.

 

“It already is to us,” drawls Rolo as Lance pushes open the door to the left wing.

 

He lucked out when he first moved in, being one of the first to do so, when Hunk was there showing him the ropes. He advised Lance to take a room as far from the common area as possible – things would inevitably become hectic as soon as the other rooms filled up. Thus far, Lance hasn’t had an issue beyond Red and Rolo’s annoying bro combo.

 

The duffel meets the floor as Lance stretches his arms above his head. He’s aware Hunk won’t be finished work for another couple hours, so while the sun is still out he takes the side door to the backyard, conveniently avoiding the gamer bros howling about headshots.

 

Someone is already by the firepit, one foot propped up on the rocks as he fills the space beneath a teepee of sticks. As Lance approaches, he realizes he doesn’t recognize the black hair tied back in a short ponytail, or the loose tank top that shows off more skin than ideal in early June.

 

“Aren’t you freezing?” asks Lance as he brushes off one of the Muskoka chairs before taking a seat.

 

The newcomer lifts his head, blinks at Lance, then shrugs. “It’s a bit brisk, I guess.”

 

“ _Brisk,”_ echoes Lance, who then snorts, “Even if the cold doesn’t get you, the bugs will.”

 

“I’ve basically doused myself in bug spray.”

 

“Doesn’t work with the blackflies.”

 

“Haven’t been bitten yet,” says the boy with a dismissive shrug.

 

Lance tugs his hoodie’s sleeves further down over his hands. It’s pretty obvious that the boy is from the city, otherwise he would have been more wary about the insects. Lance was eaten alive the first night. He didn’t make the same mistake twice. The newcomer would realize his own error by mid June if not by the next day, when the blackflies dig like excited puppies at every inch of available flesh – and that’s _before_ they find the edges of cuffs and collars.

 

“Suit yourself, then,” says Lance.

 

The boy pulls a lighter out of his pocket and crouches, sticking his fist within his cone of kindling. That, at least, seems to be something he is familiar with. A city boy with some camping experience, then, Lance can give him that. Luckily the wood is dry, and it requires little encouragement to catch into a fairly stable fire. The boy steps back and looks down at his work, hands planted on his hips.

 

They remain like that for a long minute – Lance sitting in his usual seat, and the newcomer hovering close to the flames warming his _obviously_ chilled arms. Lance feels the need to fill the silence, but as he opens his mouth, another person announces their presence at the doorway to the staffhouse.

 

“Yo, TB!”

 

Lance grimaces. “Not my name, Red.”

 

“Sure it is!”

 

“For fuck’s sake.”

 

The newcomer sends Lance a curious look, but he doesn’t ask. Just as well, since Red has a big mouth and Rolo’s is somehow bigger, albeit quieter.

 

“Toilet Bowl,” croons Rolo as he and Red cross the yard to the fire pit, “How about we make a bet?”

 

Sounds like a terrible idea. “What for?” asks Lance anyway.

 

Red comes up behind Lance’s chair and claps his hands down on both of Lance’s shoulders. “You beat me and Rolo at volleyball, first to twenty, and we’ll stop calling you TB.”

 

“And if I lose?”

 

“You introduce yourself as TB,” smiles Rolo, “It doesn’t even have to be Toilet Bowl. We’re giving you a _lucrative_ offer.”

 

“And you can even ask the mullet man to help out!” Red is practically bouncing now, shoving Lance – counting calming breathes – repeatedly against the chair.

 

Mullet man, aka the newbie, looks rightly unimpressed by the title. “My name is Keith.”

 

“Sure, dude,” says Red dismissively, “You in or what?”

 

Lance looks Keith up and down. He seems athletic enough; his biceps are certainly toned and his calves are _nice_ – right, reasons why people tend to assume he’s gay or something. The wandering gaze.

 

“You in?” parrots Rolo.

 

“Only if you think you’re any good,” says Lance, keeping his voice light enough to count as a joke.

 

Keith looks between him and the two gamerbros. He doesn’t seem enthused by the sudden competition, but the cock of his eyebrow is enough to assure Lance that he might just stand a chance.

 

“Yeah, I’ll bite.”

 

Rolo’s mouth spreads into his best slasher smile. There’s already a volleyball, battered and smudged with ink and dirt, spinning between his palms. “Awesome. Shoes off, boys.”

 

As soon as Red’s weight is off his shoulders, Lance pulls himself out of the deep seat of the Muskoka chair and kicks his shoes off to rest beside the high stones of the fire pit. A week running around barefoot already turned the bottom of his feet into tough leather. To his surprise, Keith seems just as unbothered by the twigs and stones and pine needles beneath his newly bare feet as they traipse across the yard to the sandy volleyball court.

 

The sand is cold between his toes. It has a slightly damp feel to it, despite the sun baking it for the past several days. The sky is still light, but Red runs over to the gazebo regardless to flip the switch for the light fixed to the pine overlooking the court. It’ll take a few minutes to warm up, but even with the sun dipping below the treetops, they can see just fine.

 

“Right, here’s the plan,” says Lance, turning his back on Red and Rolo doing some sort of weird huddle of their own, “You receive, I spike.”

 

Keith gives him a flat look. “That’s not much of a plan.”

 

“There’s only two of us, we’ve just met, I have no idea if you’re any good at volleyball and my reputation is on the line.”

 

“What’s so bad about TB?”

 

“Toilet Bowl!” crows Red.

 

Lance shoots him a venomous glare over his shoulder and hisses to Keith, “It wouldn’t be that bad if it wasn’t coming from _them_.”

 

Keith follows his gaze. Red and Rolo look like their prancing in place, kicking sand and swinging their arms as if loosening up. They look ridiculous – and it’s really annoying to watch. Lance can see the slightest shadow of irritation pass over Keith’s face before he’s looking at Lance and nodding.

 

“Fine, we’ll keep it simple. Try to keep up.”

 

Lance immediately scoffs. “ _Me?_ Try to keep up? Oh, buddy, you are _in for a treat_.”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

“Damn right we will.”

 

Rolo serves first – by launching himself into the air and slamming his palm down on the ball. It snipes the outer corner of the court, marked by half buried beer cans. Lance stares at the dent it leaves in the sand. Keith does too. Hm. It occurs to Lance that he’s never really paid any attention to how good Rolo is when he was playing before.

 

“...You could’ve gotten that,” says Lance.

 

Keith shoots him _a look_.

 

On the next serve, the ball soars between the two boys, causing both to windmill their arms backward to avoid colliding. Red is Rolo’s personal cheer squad at this point.

 

Rolo serves again and again, his grin getting nastier with each point until Lance is seriously wondering whether he’s getting some sort of sadistic pleasure out of it. On the other hand, Red is practically stomping a moat into the sand with his impatient footwork.

 

On the fifth serve, Lance has glued himself to the far corner of the court and Keith has taken center. He manages to receive the intimidating serve on the flat of his forearms, and the ball goes up. Lance is at the net in an instant, jumping straight up – and not going nearly high enough. The sand saps any strength his legs have and what should have been a graceful leap turns into a desperate hop. He’s already falling and the ball is coming down and he reaches with a long arm to tap the peeling surface –

 

The ball lands with a muffled sound a couple centimeters into Red and Rolo’s half, both boys frozen in different states of a hesitant lunge. Lance staggers back in the sand and bursts out laughing to cover his surprise. He totally meant to do that. Obviously.

 

He swings around to beam at Keith, who squints at him and wrinkles his nose. Unimpressed. Lance sticks his tongue out childishly.

 

“We got the point, didn’t we?” he says.

 

Keith grimaces. “Barely. Can you serve?”

 

“Underhand,” says Lance confidently.

 

“Why did you agree to this bet if you can’t play volleyball?”

 

“Hey, man, give me a gym court and I _own_ spiking,” sniffs Lance.

 

“So you can’t receive or serve,” clarifies Keith, his expression one of mounting disbelief, “And you can’t jump because of the sand, which means you basically can’t spike.”

 

“Sounds about right.”

 

“ _Why._ ”

 

Great question. An unfortunate mixture of irritation and misplaced confidence, probably. But it’s too late to back down now.

 

“I have no intention of calling myself TB,” declares Lance with far more gusto than he’s currently feeling, “You’re up to serve.”

 

Muttering something vaguely insulting under his breath, Keith goes to collect the ball from under the net. Their side of the court has more grass for a run up than the other side, and Keith makes good use of it. He jumps, slams his hand against the ball with far more force than completely necessary, and it blasts down – to land a solid two meters out of bounds.

 

“Fuck,” deadpans Keith.

 

“Shit,” sighs Lance.

 

Red laughs so hard he collapses into a heap in the sand – a rather transparent overreaction – while Rolo runs into the woods lining the backyard to fetch the ball.

 

Lance swivels on his foot and approaches Keith to speak in a hushed whisper. “New plan.”

 

By the time Rolo returns, hiking his feet up with every prick of a broken twig or a jagged pebble, Lance and Keith are staring them down on the back line. Red serves this time, a surprisingly passive overhand bunt that soars lazily in the air to bounce against Keith’s arms. Lance doesn’t bother jumping this time, but knocks it over with his knuckles. Red receives, the ball curves towards the net, and Rolo is setting up to jump and spike – because of course the guy can actually pull that shit off.

 

Lance prays and moves into position. The ball hits him right in the nose. Stars erupt in front of Lance’s eyelids, and for a dizzying moment, he’s far more impressed by the force of Rolo’s spike than the fact his plan to get nailed in the face actually worked.

 

“ _Bro_ ,” says Red.

 

“Uh,” says Rolo, “My bad?”

 

“Amazing,” says Keith.

 

Lance barely remains upright, but he’s blinking hard and lifts a hand to dab tenderly under his nostrils. “My nose is bleeding.”

 

“Oh no,” says Keith with zero enthusiasm, “It looks like we’re going to have to postpone this match.”

 

“ _Bro!_ ”

 

“Yeah, that’s...fine.” Rolo is eyeing Lance like he’s lost his mind. He sort of deserves that – he _did_ , after all, throw himself into the path of a flying volleyball.

 

Keith escorts Lance across the court and back to the fire pit to collect their shoes. Then they’re shuffling into the staff house and tracking sand everywhere as they go. In the bathroom, Lance leans in close to the mirror to get a look at the thick crimson blood sluggishly rolling from his nose. Keith appears beside him with a wad of toilet paper, which Lance takes and presses with a wince to his leaking nostrils.

 

“That could not have worked out better,” says Lance, voice nasally.

 

Keith gives him another _look_ through the mirror. “And when Rolo asks for a rematch?”

 

“We’d better start practicing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're american, you might say adirondack chairs instead of muskoka _but everyone is canadian in this fic_.
> 
> red is not keith's lion red if it wasn't...clear......or if you....wanted to hc that the human version of keith's lion is a gamer bro with rolo THAT'S TOTALLY FINE TOO. 
> 
>  
> 
> the black flies are terrible for the entirety of june and bug spray _will not_ work with them


	3. sometimes all you gotta do is watch it all unfold

It’s the afternoon during Hunk’s day off that he sees Thalia and another girl standing at the window in the adjoining patio. He’s just woken up, hair a cowlicked mess and eyes half shuttered, but all the wardens and supervisors and other assorted park employees have finished their lunches and left by now. 

 

It’s one of the downsides of living in SHQ – the kitchen not only feeds those living in it, but everyone else who has the time to pop in as well. He’s learned to time when he leaves his room to avoid meeting his boss after an incredibly humiliating first experience. 

 

He’s also learned to hide his marker set from Lance. 

 

“Hey,” greets Hunk as he steps inside the patio and up beside Thalia. The tall girl she’s with catches his eye and he adds, “We haven’t met. I’m Hunk. Canis gatestaff.” 

 

“Jackie,” says the new girl with a slash of a smile, “Store.”

 

“So what’s going on?”

 

Thalia taps her fingernail against the screen. Hunk can see the gazebo, interior obscured by the dark screens that serve as windows, and the firepit with all available surfaces holding crushed beer cans, an assortment of forgotten lighters and an empty cigarette pack. Someone set up a slackline across the volleyball court, but it appears to be abandoned.

 

Then there’s Lance, booking it frantically around the gazebo and crouching by one of the exits. Rolo appears next, turning to the bushes and ripping them aside. With a huff that Hunk can feel but not hear, Rolo scowls and turns away.

 

“Hide and seek?” says Hunk.

 

“Apparently Lance drew dicks on Rolo’s car,” explains Thalia, the curve of her lips twitching, “Rolo didn’t know. Some OPP guys were going through west gate and saw it first and pointed it out to Slav.”

 

“Oh shit,” deadpans Hunk.

 

“Slav was…” Thalia trails off with an odd sound under her breath. Hunk understands. Slav is a character, to say the least.

 

“Impressed by the symmetry,” finishes Jackie, “Rolo wasn’t.”

 

“One of the dicks wasn’t quite right though, so Slav made Rolo clean his entire car spotless.”

 

“And  _ apparently _ the police were talking about it with the wardens at east gate, so one of them had a chat with Rolo about it earlier.”

 

“Coran,” elaborates Thalia with a meaningful look at Hunk. Ah, yes, another character. It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been – “Imagine if Prorok was the one dressing him down.”

 

“He would’ve gone  _ straight _ to Haggar,” shudders Hunk. 

 

Thalia quickly shoots a look over her shoulder, but they’re the only ones in the patio, and in the common room there’s only Pidge leaving the bathroom and Keith with his head down on the table. She lets out a small breath of relief and faces forward again. Jackie cocks an eyebrow at her questioningly. 

 

“Haggar is Helen,” clarifies Hunk, “But don’t call her that beyond present company.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“And by  _ that _ I mean Haggar, not Helen.”

 

“Yeah, I figured.”

 

“She’d have your hide,” says Thalia lightly, but her eyes are glazed and staring into the distance, completely ignoring Rolo stalking towards the bike rack and Lance silently climbing onto the gazebo roof. 

 

“Huh,” hums Jackie, as if that’s a challenge. Hunk worries about her – but he stops when she props open the patio door and shouts to Rolo, “Look behind you.”

 

Rolo’s head shoots up from where he’s peering around the bikes, staring at her in confusion, and then he turns around. Lance isn’t quick enough flattening himself to the roof of the gazebo. 

 

“Yikes,” says Thalia. 

 

Jackie nods in satisfaction and then whisks around to head back into the common room. Rolo marches across the grass towards the gazebo, Lance is clearly torn between staying up there or jumping down and running for it, and then Red appears, walking around the side of the staffhouse pushing his bike. He pauses and watches his best friend try to figure out how Lance got onto the roof.

 

“What’s going on?” asks Pidge as she and Keith join them in the patio. Keith keeps insistently rubbing at the red spots on his neck – a gift from blackflies – but stops when Pidge hits him.

 

Hunk points from person to person as he summarizes, “Lance drew dicks on Rolo’s car, the OPP noticed at west gate, told Slav, then told the guys at east gate, and then Coran had to have a talk with Rolo about it.”

 

“Nice."

 

And then Keith mutters “Not today, asshole” and he’s running back inside staffhouse. Shortly after, Red races up the steps and bursts through the patio door, bike lying forgotten on its side.

 

_ “Volleyball,” _ hisses the boy before he too is grabbing the inner door as it swings shut behind Keith. 

 

“I don’t want to know,” says Thalia with finality.

 

“You do,” says Hunk.

 

She sighs. “I do. I really do.”

 

“This place is such a shitshow,” comments Pidge.

 

Hunk watches Rolo haul himself onto the roof – just as Lance drops down. He winces as he lands in a roll and takes off running across the yard. Rolo stands up on the gazebo and shouts insults at Lance as he disappears around the corner of the staffhouse. 

 

“A bit,” agrees Hunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> despite not mentioning everyone's positions, of the introduced characters THUS FAR we have
> 
> Keith: campground maintenance  
> Lance: gatestaff at mute lake  
> Hunk: gatestaff at canis bay  
> Pidge: program coordinator  
> Rolo: west gate  
> Slav: west gate supervisor  
> Coran: east gate/highway warden  
> Red: kitchen staff  
> Thalia: gatestaff at mute lake  
> Jackie: store/restaurant staff  
> Haggar: kitchen/staffhouse supervisor  
> Prorok: east gate/highway warden
> 
> the list is going to get really long but don't worry about it 
> 
> that awkward feel when ur trying to simplify how the park actually worked but it's still complicated
> 
> also i should probs mention that like, everything is lighthearted fun until it isn't, but i'll take awhile to get to that


End file.
